


Fall Onto Me

by MellytheHun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Nogitsune, Protective Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:31:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4000852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt: “ngl i thought you were the weak one of this friend group but your whole life just went to complete shit around you and somehow you’re still acting the same so if you want to be weak you can be around me” au</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall Onto Me

Derek watches Stiles closely, _so_ closely, waiting for the breakdown, waiting for the water to rise so that he can hold Stiles up this time; waiting for the fire to consume so that he won’t be too late this time. He waits for Stiles’ eyes to well up, for his breath to catch, for his heartbeat to give him away like it always does.

But the floods don’t rush in and the fire doesn’t rain down and Stiles’ heartbeat stays relatively even.

In fact, he’s so eerily _‘normal’_ that Derek privately asks Scott if he’s completely sure that Stiles is no longer possessed. Scott admits that he’s been waiting for the signs of a breakdown as well, but hasn’t seen them.

“Maybe he’s really okay now,” Scott offers hopefully, “Maybe he’s just glad it’s over?”

Derek opens his mouth to say, ‘this type of pain is never over,’ but he keeps it to himself. He wants to say that it’s much more likely that Stiles is shoving down every negative emotion or rejecting the event of the possession entirely. He decides that Scott understanding is a long-shot, so he just replies,

“Yeah. Maybe.”  


But he knows that’s not true. Derek knows Stiles is hurting in a way he’s hurt before. There is no other way to describe it. He felt ties to his family, to Scott, to Boyd and Erica and Isaac that all felt like strings, that when plucked, sang out ‘ _Pack_.’ He looks at Stiles now and there are different strings. There is a different note that plays. But something similar. ‘ _A different kind of Pack._ ’ ‘ _Someone who understands_.’

‘ _Connection_ ,’ ‘ _connection_ ,’ ‘ _connection_ ’ it sings.   


But Stiles is either ignoring it or doesn’t feel it at all. Either way, his eyes do not linger on Derek like Derek’s eyes linger on him. His heart is still fast, but normal-fast. Classic, anxiety-riddled Stiles normal-fast. 

Derek is awake one night, lying in bed with the moonlight pouring in through the French windows, staring at the ceiling, far and away from sleep. He is consumed with thoughts of Stiles - which isn’t unusual as of late. 

He’s imaging the turn of Stiles’ wrists, the veins in his forearms and hands. The moles on his face, the quick turn of his lips and his turned up nose. The line of his shoulders and the length of his legs.

The realization that Stiles is protecting him dawns on him _very_ suddenly. 

He’s watching dust motes float through the moonlight, guiltily trying to imagine what Stiles’ skin might feel like and then his heart lurches and he just _knows_.

Without consciously pulling the memory forward, Derek recalls a dinner with Laura in New York. She insisted on going to an out-of-the-way diner because she wanted greasy pancakes with soda and no judgement. She had spent the afternoon crying on the living room couch; her eyes were still glassy and puffy, she looked sleepy and a little bit far away.

“Why don’t you ever cry?” Laura had asked.  


Derek had no appetite, had been looking out the window onto the busy street and answered,

“I don’t need to.”  


What it sounded like was, _“I do not feel the need to cry,”_ but what he meant was, _“you don’t need that,” “I can’t put that on you,” “I don’t deserve comfort.”_

She never asked again.

And now nine years later, Derek is lying on his bed, his back hot and brow furrowed, wondering how in the Hell he can convince another lost boy that it is okay to cry.

He peels off his blankets, is on his feet in a second and pauses at his dresser. He looks down at his sweatpants and loose fitting shirt and thinks that maybe, if he shows Stiles an unguarded part of himself, Stiles will feel safer letting his own guards down.

He stares down at his bare feet and thinks to himself that he is not capable of breaking down Stiles’ barriers, just as no one, even Laura, had been capable of breaking down his own. The only way to get through is to have them lowered.

He cannot force Stiles to show his heart. He can only give Stiles reason to believe it is safe to do so.

He rubs at his neck compulsively, suddenly anxious. 

+

Stiles is awake, at his desk, reading something long and dense. He notices Derek as soon as his weight lands on the windowsill. He watches, mostly unperturbed, as Derek opens the window from outside and steps into his room.

When Stiles notices Derek is wearing his pajamas, he stands up, concern coming off him in waves.

“Are you okay? Is there someone in the loft? Is the loft on fire or something? What happened?”  


Derek doesn’t answer any of that, just walks into Stiles’ space and sweeps Stiles into his arms, draws him in close and tight.

“What’s going on? Derek? Why are you -”  


“I just want to hold you.”  


Stiles goes tense in his hold, his arms stiff and heart rate turning up.

“W-what?”  


Derek readjusts his arms around Stiles, pulling him in impossibly closer, turning his face against Stiles’ temple.

Derek thinks about saying, _“I know what you’re feeling,”_ but he doesn’t think that’s completely true. He considers saying, _“I want to take your pain away,”_ but he knows he can’t. He wonders if he should mention the connection he feels, say, _“you and I are our own Pack. We are the same kind of burned,”_ but he doesn’t know that Stiles would respond well to that. 

He thinks he can’t define this for Stiles. He can’t tell Stiles anything about _Stiles_. He can only extend himself.

So, he says,

“When I was sixteen, I thought about crying.”  


Stiles’ body is so tense and unsure and he’s still not touching Derek back. He’s only allowing himself to be touched, and even that feels tentative. 

“I was brushing my teeth, getting ready for bed. And I…” Derek struggles for the words, “I could… I could feel it. I could feel the tears in my throat, behind my eyes. Like a rising flood behind my face. And I thought about it, but then I remembered that Laura was in the living room and she would hear me.”  


Derek can feel Stiles’ brows spring up. He can hear the way Stiles’ breath changes.

“I had this weird sort of… outer body experience,” Derek explains, “Where I told myself that if I start crying, it will rip me apart. That everything I never wanted to tell Laura would spill out of me and I’d have no control. But that I would feel better. I would heal a little. Or I could choose not to cry and protect Laura.”  


“Protect her?” Stiles asks softly.  


Derek nods and replies, “Sometimes it felt like the house was still burning down and I was the beams. I was holding the house from collapsing and that if I let go for even a second, it would all come down. I thought it would hurt her and I thought that she would love me anyway. And I couldn’t take that.”  


“Her love?”  


“I didn’t feel like I deserved it.”  


Stiles nods slightly, his hands coming cautiously to Derek’s waist.

“Why are you… telling me all of this?”

He then very abruptly seems to notice where this conversation is headed. He tries to back away, but Derek holds him tightly.

“No,” Stiles bites, “ _No_. I’m not - this is _not_ \- you have no idea -”  


“I know,” Derek assures, “I know.”  


“No, _no_ \- no,” Stiles struggles against Derek’s arms, putting some space between them, but still stuck in the loop of them, “I’m not doing this - I’m not doing this. Did Scott put you up to this? I can’t -”

Derek lets go of Stiles’ squirming body only to clasp his face with both hands. Stiles’ hands come to grip his tensed forearms; Stiles’ eyes are wide and glassy.

“You _can_ ,” Derek insists tersely, “You can with me.”  


“I don’t need you to save me,” Stiles snarls, trying to dislodge Derek’s hands from his cheeks.  


“I _can’t_ save you,” Derek confesses.  


Stiles pauses in his fighting, looking disarmed. He stares into Derek’s eyes and Derek repeats gently,

“I can’t. I can’t save you. No one can.”  


Stiles’ eyes are somehow wider than before. 

“Then why would you -”  


“Because no one could save me either,” Derek interrupts.  


Stiles gawks at Derek, like he might want to laugh. Like he’s looking for any way to get out of this, like he’s trying to scrounge up any reason to not trust this, to brush Derek off, to pretend he’s fine. 

“You’re holding up a burning house now and I’m telling you that you can let it fall.”  


Stiles’ eyes get wet and his brows curve in, more devastated than relieved.

“You can let it fall on me.”  


Stiles shakes his head, tries pushing half-heartedly at Derek’s chest. His heart is fast as a hummingbird, his breathing is getting more difficult, his face is turning blotchy pink.

“I - I’m not - I can’t -”  


“I’m going…” Derek swallows thickly, “I’m… I’m going to love you anyway.”  


Stiles breath catches like a hiccup, like a shock, his heart skips a beat and tears spring from his scrunched eyes.

Derek nods, even though Stiles isn’t looking at him.

“You can cry. You can hit me, you can scream and you can tell me everything. You can tell me anything. At the end of it, I’m still…going to love you.”  


Stiles’ knees go weak and Derek helps to lower him onto his bedroom floor. The sobs are _wrenched_ from Stiles, he can hardly breathe under the weight of it and Derek doesn’t wipe his tears or tell him it’s okay. He brushes back Stiles’ hair sometimes, he holds Stiles’ hand, listens to Stiles’ rapid heart and watches the red paint his neck and face. 

“I feel so - so _weak_ ,” Stiles admits between tears, “I feel like I failed everyone, I feel like everyone is s-secretly thinking that it should’ve been - it should’ve been me instead of Allison.”  


Derek pulls Stiles into the space of his open legs and tucks Stiles head against the hallow of his throat. His neck and the collar of his shirt get wet quickly.

“It’s… it’s okay that you feel this way,” Derek starts, nervous to say the wrong thing, “It’s not true. None of that is true. But it is okay that you feel it.”  


Stiles cries long into the night and at about 2am, his cries turn into sniffles and small, beaten down noises. He mutters things about remembering the possession, remembering not having control of his body, remembering the secondhand joy he felt from the chaos. He whispers things about guilt, suicidal hate, unbearable love and feeling like a stranger to himself. For hours.

Derek eventually picks him up in a bridal carry and lays him down on his bed. Just as his hands are slipping away from under Stiles’ weight, Stiles grabs at his wrist, looking and smelling panicked. Derek smiles sweetly at him and with a raspy morning voice reassures him,

“I’m not leaving.”  


Derek climbs onto the bed and adjusts Stiles so that his head rests on the right of his chest. So Stiles can listen to his heart too. 

He combs a hand through Stiles’ hair leisurely, feeling strangely serene. Like the fire of Stiles’ burning house is pleasantly warming him. 

“I can’t believe I just told you all of that,” Stiles rasps against his chest.  


The rub of Stiles’ cheek against him is intimate and he can’t help but notice how well Stiles fits slotted next to him. 

“I still love you.”  


Stiles picks up his head at that, his eyes are hooded, there are lines under them that weren’t there when Derek first arrived and he looks completely worn out. His brow is even tired, his expression sort of lazy, but still concerned.

“Why - why do you keep saying that?”  


Derek tries not to show his anxiety, but his body goes very still.

“I… is it too much?”  


“Do you mean it?”  


“Yes.”  


“Then it’s not too much,” Stiles says.  


A long, quiet moment passes until Stiles asks bravely, “what, uhm… what kind of love do you mean?”

Derek cocks a brow, “you want to talk about this right now?”

“Yes.”  


He sighs.

“I feel every kind of love for you,” Derek mumbles, slowly and with a rough, tired voice.  


“Every kind?” Stiles asks curiously.  


“I want to protect you because you’re young,” Derek starts, earning a dry look, “I guess that’s a… misplaced paternal sort of thing. I love you that way.”  


Stiles watches him as his left hand comes to rest on the part of his chest that Stiles isn’t leaning on.

“I feel ties to you. Like Pack and so, like family. You sometimes remind me of my older brother.”  


Stiles swallows, feeling the weight of Derek’s words and Derek can tell because Stiles’ heart is so loud.

“I love you that way too.”  


There’s a pregnant pause and it’s obvious Stiles is waiting. He wants Derek to say it, he won’t let it be and so Derek shuts his eyes; too intimidated by the glistening in Stiles’ Chinese lantern eyes to stare into them while he continues.

“I sometimes think about kissing you. I sometimes think about having you in my bed. Touching you. And I love you that way.”  


Stiles’ heart is a deep, fast rhythm now, booming in Derek’s ears.

“I’ve had dreams before, dreams where…” Derek pauses, embarrassment making his ears hot - but he knows he owes this to Stiles. He owes Stiles his sincerity.  


“Where…?” Stiles begs.  


“Where your father liked me. We restored my old house. Wore rings. Had a lot of seats at the dinner table.”  


Derek wonders briefly if he should be worried about what Stiles’ heart is doing. He turns to face where Stiles’ is looking down at him, propped up on his elbow. He opens his eyes and Stiles is gazing wondrously at him.

“But if I’m being honest, I’m usually half-awake for those. I’m awake enough to stop thinking about it or imagining it, but I don’t stop. I… I don’t stop.”  


His own eyes feel heavy and he feels weightless in a way. Like maybe this entire night has been a dream. He is sharing in more than Stiles’ space and bed now. It feels like they’re in a bubble where time is frozen, where their souls are blended together like a gradient. Where honesty is easy and being weak is being strong.

“I love you that way.”  


Stiles’ twinkling eyes move back and forth between Derek’s and he asks, genuinely and sweetly,

“You daydream about being married to me?”  


Derek feels the heat of his face give him away. His voice is tired and his heart is bumping against his chest, near to where Stiles’ hand is splayed, where Stiles can feel it and watch it. He doesn’t remember when he allowed himself to be this vulnerable for Stiles.

He wonders if there was a certain hour in the night that he forgot to hold his own house up. Maybe it passed without his notice; too busy watching the cascades from Stiles’ eyes to catch the placement of the moon. 

“I’ve said too much,” Derek states weakly.  


_It’s still not enough_ , he thinks.

Not enough to express how deep, how true, how human and entirely overwhelming his love is.

But he thinks that he can’t say that. He is too raw. Bleeding all of this truth onto Stiles and onto his blanket, limp and weatherworn like a deathbed.

Stiles tilts his head down and fits his lips against Derek’s.

Stiles’ face is very warm from crying, his lips are dry, but only enough that their lips stick a little when Stiles pulls away. 

“I love you too,” Stiles whispers, breath hot against Derek’s mouth.  


Derek tilts his head, brings his palm up to cup Stiles’ face and encourage him to come back. They kiss again, slowly and chastely, but with pressure enough to prove it’s real. To anchor each other.

When Stiles pulls away again, seeming ready to wet his lips and maybe kiss Derek into the next millennia, Derek shakes his head. He pets the side of Stiles’ face tenderly and it makes Stiles’ blush. His lips are just a touch swollen and his face is warm and pink, but it’s for another reason entirely.

“We should sleep now.”  


And that’s how Derek knows Stiles is truly worn down, because he nods and falls back onto his chest. The top of his head is tucked under Derek’s chin and Derek keeps one arm around him, holding him close and running his fingers up and down his back soothingly.

“Will you still be here in the morning?”  


“Do you want me to be?” Derek asks.  


“Yeah. I do.”  


“Then I will be.”  


He feels Stiles smile against him and he smiles peacefully to the ceiling. He shuts his eyes, kisses Stiles’ scalp and says,

“Goodnight, Stiles.”

“Goodnight, Derek.”  


Derek’s face is lax and he’s drifting off fairly quickly until he hears Stiles murmur against him,

“And my dad _does_ like you.”  


Derek gives a huff of a laugh and says honestly, “good to know.”


End file.
